Books: Cosmopolis, v1
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Paul Bourget >> Cosmopolis, v1
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"No," continued the good man, "I would not sell it." Then extending it
to the Marquis, in evident excitement, he cried: "But to you I will sell
it for four hundred francs."
"But I have offered you five hundred francs for it," said the nonplussed
purchaser. "You know that is a small sum for such a curiosity."
"Take it for four," insisted Ribalta, growing more and more eager, "not a
sou less, not a sou more. It is what it cost me. And you shall have
your documents in two days and the Hafner papers this week. But was that
Bourbon who sacked Rome a Frenchman?" he continued. "And Charles
d'Anjou, who fell upon us to make himself King of the two Sicilies? And
Charles VIII, who entered by the Porte du Peuple? Were they Frenchmen?
Why did they come to meddle in our affairs? Ah, if we were to calculate
closely, how much you owe us! Was it not we who gave you Mazarin,
Massena, Bonaparte and many others who have gone to die in your army in
Russia, in Spain and elsewhere? And at Dijon? Did not Garibaldi
stupidly fight for you, who would have taken from him his country? We
are quits on the score of service . . . . But take your prayer-book-
good-evening, good-evening. You can pay me later."
And he literally pushed the Marquis out of the stall, gesticulating and
throwing down books on all sides. Montfanon found himself in the street
before having been able to draw from his pocket the money he had got
ready.
"What a madman! My God, what a madman!" said he to himself, with a
laugh. He left the shop at a brisk pace, with the precious book under
his arm. He understood, from having frequently come in contact with
them, those southern natures, in which swindling and chivalry elbow
without harming one another--Don Quixotes who set their own windmills in
motion. He asked himself:
"How much would he still make after playing the magnamimous with me?"
His question was never to be answered, nor was he to know that Ribalta
had bought the rare volume among a heap of papers, engravings, and old
books, paying twenty-five francs for all. Moreover, two encounters which
followed one upon the other on leaving the shop, prevented him from
meditating on that problem of commercial psychology. He paused for a
moment at the end of the street to cast a glance at the Place d'Espagne,
which he loved as one of those corners unchanged for the last thirty
years. On that morning in the early days of May, the square, with its
sinuous edge, was indeed charming with bustle and light, with the houses
which gave it a proper contour, with the double staircase of La Trinite-
des-Monts lined with idlers, with the water which gushed from a large
fountain in the form of a bark placed in the centre-one of the
innumerable caprices in which the fancy of Bernin, that illusive
decorator, delighted to indulge. Indeed, at that hour and in that light,
the fountain was as natural in effect as were the nimble hawkers who held
in their extended arms baskets filled with roses, narcissus, red
anemones, fragile cyclamens and dark pansies. Barefooted, with sparkling
eyes, entreaties upon their lips, they glided among the carriages which
passed along rapidly, fewer than in the height of the season, still quite
numerous, for spring was very late this year, and it came with delightful
freshness. The flower-sellers besieged the hurried passers-by, as well
as those who paused at the shop-windows, and, devout Catholic as
Montfanon was, he tasted, in the face of the picturesque scene of a
beautiful morning in his favorite city, the pleasure of crowning that
impression of a bright moment by a dream of eternity. He had only to
turn his eyes to the right, toward the College de la Propagande, a
seminary from which all the missions of the world set out.
But it was decreed that the impassioned nobleman should not enjoy
undisturbed the bibliographical trifle obtained so cheaply and which he
carried under his arm, nor that feeling so thoroughly Roman; a sudden
apparition surprised him at the corner of a street, at an angle of the
sidewalk. His bright eyes lost their serenity when a carriage passed by
him, a carriage, perfectly appointed, drawn by two black horses, and in
which, notwithstanding the early hour, sat two ladies. The one was
evidently an inferior, a companion who acted as chaperon to the other, a
young girl of almost sublime beauty, with large black eyes, which
contrasted strongly with a pale complexion, but a pallor in which there
was warmth and life. Her profile, of an Oriental purity, was so much on
the order of the Jewish type that it left scarcely a doubt as to the
Hebrew origin of the creature, a veritable vision of loveliness, who
seemed created, as the poets say, "To draw all hearts in her wake." But
no! The jovial, kindly face of the Marquis suddenly darkened as he
watched the girl about to turn the corner of the street, and who bowed to
a very fashionable young man, who undoubtedly knew the late pontifical
zouave, for he approached him familiarly, saying, in a mocking tone and
in a French which came direct from France:
"Well! Now I have caught you, Marquis Claude-Francois de Montfanon!....
She has come, you have seen her, you have been conquered. Have your eyes
feasted upon divine Fanny Hafner? Tremble! I shall denounce you to his
Eminence, Cardinal Guerillot; and if you malign his charming catechist I
will be there to testify that I saw you hypnotized as she passed, as were
the people of Troy by Helen. And I know very positively that Helen had
not so modern a grace, so beautiful a mind, so ideal a profile, so deep a
glance, so dreamy a mouth and such a smile. Ah, how lovely she is! When
shall you call?"
"If Monsieur Julien Dorsenne," replied Montfanon, in the same mocking
tone, "does not pay more attention to his new novel than he is doing at
this moment, I pity his publisher. Come here," he added, brusquely,
dragging the young man to the angle of Rue Borgognona. "Did you see the
victoria stop at No. 13, and the divine Fanny, as you call her, alight?
. . . She has entered the shop of that old rascal, Ribalta. She will
not remain there long. She will come out, and she will drive away in her
carriage. It is a pity she will not pass by us again. We should have
had the pleasure of seeing her disappointed air. This is what she is in
search of," added he, with a gay laugh, exhibiting his purchase, "but
which she could not have were she to offer all the millions which her
honest father has stolen in Vienna. Ha, ha!" he concluded, laughing
still more heartily, "Monsieur de Montfanon rose first; this morning has
not been lost, and you, Monsieur, can see what I obtained at the
curiosity-shop of that old fellow who will not make a plaything of this
object, at least," he added, extending the book to his interlocutor, at
whom he glanced with a comical expression of triumph.
"I do not wish to look at it," responded Dorsenne. "But, yes," he
continued, as Montfanon shrugged his shoulders, "in my capacity of
novelist and observer, since you cast it at my head, I know already what
it is. What do you bet? . . . It is a prayer-book which bears the
signature of Marshal de Montluc, and which Cardinal Guerillot discovered.
Is that true? He spoke to Mademoiselle Hafner about it, and he thought
he would mitigate your animosity toward her by telling you she was an
enthusiast and wished to buy it. Is that true as well? And you,
wretched man, had only one thought, to deprive that poor little thing of
the trifle. Is that true? We spent the evening before last together at
Countess Steno's; she talked to me of nothing but her desire to have the
book on which the illustrious soldier, the great believer, had prayed.
She told me of all her heroic resolutions. Later she went to buy it.
But the shop was closed; I noticed it on passing, and you certainly went
there, too . . . . Is that true? . . . And, now that I have
detailed to you the story, explain to me, you who are so just, why you
cherish an antipathy so bitter and so childish--excuse the word!--for an
innocent, young girl, who has never speculated on 'Change, who is as
charitable as a whole convent, and who is fast becoming as devout as
yourself. Were it not for her father, who will not listen to the thought
of conversion before marriage, she would already be a Catholic, and--
Protestants as they are for the moment--she would never go anywhere but
to church . . . . When she is altogether a Catholic, and under the
protection of a Sainte-Claudine and a Sainte-Francoise, as you are under
the protection of Saint-Claude and Saint-Francois, you will have to lay
down your arms, old leaguer, and acknowledge the sincerity of the
religious sentiments of that child who has never harmed you."
"What! She has done nothing to me?" . . . interrupted Montfanon.
"But it is quite natural that a sceptic should not comprehend what she
has done to me, what she does to me daily, not to me personally, but to
my opinions. When one has, like you, learned intellectual athletics in
the circus of the Sainte-Beuves and Renans, one must think it fine that
Catholicism, that grand thing, should serve as a plaything for the
daughter of a pirate who aims at an aristocratic marriage. It may, too,
amuse you that my holy friend, Cardinal Guerillot, should be the dupe of
that intriguer. But I, Monsieur, who have received the sacrament by the
side of a Sonis, I can not admit that one should make use of what was the
faith of that hero to thrust one's self into the world. I do not admit
that one should play the role of dupe and accomplice to an old man whom
I venerate and whom I shall enlighten, I give you my word."
"And as for this ancient relic," he continued, again showing the volume,
"you may think it childish that I do not wish it mixed up in the shameful
comedy. But no, it shall not be. They shall not exhibit with words of
emotion, with tearful eyes, this breviary on which once prayed that grand
soldier; yes, Monsieur, that great believer. She has done nothing to
me," he repeated, growing more and more excited, his red face becoming
purple with rage, "but they are the quintessence of what I detest the
most, people like her and her father. They are the incarnation of the
modern world, in which there is nothing more despicable than these
cosmopolitan adventurers, who play at grand seigneur with the millions
filibustered in some stroke on the Bourse. First, they have no country.
What is this Baron Justus Hafner--German, Austrian, Italian? Do you
know? They have no religion. The name, the father's face, that of the
daughter, proclaim them Jews, and they are Protestants--for the moment,
as you have too truthfully said, while they prepare themselves to become
Mussulmen or what not. For the moment, when it is a question of God!....
They have no family. Where was this man reared? What did his father,
his mother, his brothers, his sisters do? Where did he grow up? Where
are his traditions? Where is his past, all that constitutes, all that
establishes the moral man?.... Just look. All is mystery in this
personage, excepting this, which is very clear: if he had received his
due in Vienna, at the time of the suit of the 'Credit Austro-Dalmate',
in 1880, he would be in the galleys, instead of in Rome. The facts were
these: there were innumerable failures. I know something about it. My
poor cousin De Saint-Remy, who was with the Comte de Chambord, lost the
bread of his old age and his daughter's dowry. There were suicides and
deeds of violence, notably that of a certain Schroeder, who went mad on
account of that crash, and who killed himself, after murdering his wife
and his two children. And the Baron came out of it unsullied. It is not
ten years since the occurrence, and it is forgotten. When he settled in
Rome he found open doors, extended hands, as he would have found them in
Madrid, London, Paris, or elsewhere. People go to his house; they
receive him! And you wish me to believe in the devoutness of that man's
daughter!.... No, a thousand times no; and you yourself, Dorsenne, with
your mania for paradoxes and sophisms, you have the right spirit in you,
and these people horrify you in reality, as they do me."
"Not the least in the world," replied the writer, who had listened to the
Marquis's tirade; with an unconvinced smile, he repeated: "Not the least
in the world.... You have spoken of me as an acrobat or an athlete.
I am not offended, because it is you, and because I know that you love
me dearly. Let me at least have the suppleness of one. First, before
passing judgment on a financial affair I shall wait until I understand
it. Hafner was acquitted. That is enough, for one thing. Were he even
the greatest rogue in the universe, that would not prevent his daughter
from being an angel, for another. As for that cosmopolitanism for which
you censure him, we do not agree there; it is just that which interests
me in him. Thirdly,.... I should not consider that I had lost the six
months spent in Rome, if I had met only him. Do not look at me as if I
were one of the patrons of the circus, Uncle Beuve, or poor Monsieur
Renan himself," he continued, tapping the Marquis's shoulder. "I swear
to you that I am very serious. Nothing interests me more than these
exceptions to the general rule--than those who have passed through two,
three, four phases of existence. Those individuals are my museum, and
you wish me to sacrifice to your scruples one of my finest subjects....
Moreover,"--and the malice of the remark he was about to make caused the
young man's eyes to sparkle "revile Baron Hafner as much as you like,"
he continued; "call him a thief and a snob, an intriguer and a knave,
if it pleases you. But as for being a person who does not know where his
ancestors lived, I reply, as did Bonhomet when he reached heaven and the
Lord said to him: 'Still a chimney-doctor, Bonhomet?'--'And you, Lord?'.
For you were born in Bourgogne, Monsieur de Montfanon, of an ancient
family, related to all the nobility-upon which I congratulate you--and
you have lived here in Rome for almost twenty-four years, in the
Cosmopolis which you revile."
"First of all," replied the Pope's former soldier, holding up his
mutilated arm, "I might say that I no longer count, I do not live.
And then," his face became inspired, and the depths of that narrow mind,
often blinded but very exalted, suddenly appeared, "and then, my Rome to
me, Monsieur, has nothing in common with that of Monsieur Hafner nor with
yours, since you are come, it seems, to pursue studies of moral
teratology. Rome to me is not Cosmopolis, as you say, it is Metropolis,
it is the mother of cities.... You forget that I am a Catholic in every
fibre, and that I am at home here. I am here because I am a monarchist,
because I believe in old France as you believe in the modern world; and I
serve her in my fashion, which is not very efficacious, but which is one
way, nevertheless.... The post of trustee of Saint Louis, which I
accepted from Corcelle, is to me my duty, and I will sustain it in the
best way in my power.... Ah! that ancient France, how one feels her
grandeur here, and what a part she is known to have had in Christianity!
It is that chord which I should like to have heard vibrate in a fluent
writer like you, and not eternally those paradoxes, those sophisms. But
what matters it to you who date from yesterday and who boast of it," he
added, almost sadly, "that in the most insignificant corners of this city
centuries of history abound? Does your heart blush at the sight of the
facade of the church of Saint-Louis, the salamander of Francois I and the
lilies? Do you know why the Rue Bargognona is called thus, and that near
by is Saint-Claudedes-Bourguignons, our church? Have you visited, you
who are from the Vosges, that of your province, Saint-Nicolas-des-
Lorrains? Do you know Saint-Yves-des-Bretons?"
"But," and here his voice assumed a gay accent, "I have thoroughly
charged into that rascal of a Hafner. I have laid him before you without
any hesitation. I have spoken to you as I feel, with all the fervor of
my heart, although it may seem sport to you. You will be punished, for
I shall not allow you to escape. I will take you to the France of other
days. You shall dine with me at noon, and between this and then we will
make the tour of those churches I have just named. During that time we
will go back one hundred and fifty years in the past, into that world in
which there were neither cosmopolites nor dilettantes. It is the old
world, but it is hardy, and the proof is that it has endured; while your
society-look where it is after one hundred years in France, in Italy,
in England--thanks to that detestable Gladstone, of whom pride has made a
second Nebuchadnezzar. It is like Russia, your society; according to the
only decent words of the obscene Diderot, 'rotten before mature!' Come,
will you go?"
"You are mistaken," replied the writer, "in thinking that. I do not love
your old France, but that does not prevent me from enjoying the new. One
can like wine and champagne at the same time. But I am not at liberty.
I must visit the exposition at Palais Castagna this morning."
"You will not do that," exclaimed impetuous Montfanon, whose severe face
again expressed one of those contrarieties which caused it to brighten
when he was with one of whom he was fond as he was of Dorsenne. "You
would not have gone to see the King assassinated in '93? The selling at
auction of the old dwelling of Pope Urban VII is almost as tragical! It
is the beginning of the agony of what was Roman nobility. I know. They
deserve it all, since they were not killed to the last man on the steps
of the Vatican when the Italians took the city. We should have done it,
we who had no popes among our grand-uncles, if we had not been busy
fighting elsewhere. But it is none the less pitiful to see the hammer of
the appraisers raised above a palace with which is connected centuries of
history. Upon my life, if I were Prince d'Ardea--if I had inherited the
blood, the house, the titles of the Castagnas, and if I thought I should
leave nothing behind me of that which my fathers had amassed--I swear to
you, Dorsenne, I should die of grief. And if you recall the fact that
the unhappy youth is a spoiled child of eight-and-twenty, surrounded by
flatterers, without parents, without friends, without counsellors, that
he risked his patrimony on the Bourse among thieves of the integrity of
Monsieur Hafner, that all the wealth collected by that succession of
popes, of cardinals, of warriors, of diplomatists, has served to enrich
ignoble men, you would think the occurrence too lamentable to have any
share in it, even as a spectator. Come, I will take you to Saint-
Claude."
"I assure you I am expected," replied Dorsenne, disengaging his arm,
which his despotic friend had already seized. "It is very strange that I
should meet you on the way, having the rendezvous I have. I, who dote on
contrasts, shall not have lost my morning. Have you the patience to
listen to the enumeration of the persons whom I shall join immediately?
It will not be very long, but do not interrupt me. You will be angry if
you will survive the blow I am about to give you. Ah, you do not wish to
call your Rome a Cosmopolis; then what do you say to the party with
which, in twenty minutes, I shall visit the ancient palace of Urban VII?
First of all, we have your beautiful enemy, Fanny Hafner, and her father,
the Baron, representing a little of Germany, a little of Austria, a
little of Italy and a little of Holland. For it seems the Baron's mother
was from Rotterdam. Do not interrupt. We shall have Countess Steno to
represent Venice, and her charming daughter, Alba, to represent a small
corner of Russia, for the Chronicle claims that she was the child, not of
the defunct Steno, but of Werekiew-Andre, you know, the one who killed
himself in Paris five or six years ago, by casting himself into the
Seine, not at all aristocratically, from the Pont de la Concorde. We
shall have the painter, the celebrated Lincoln Maitland, to represent
America. He is the lover of Steno, whom he stole from Gorka during the
latter's trip to Poland. We shall have the painter's wife, Lydia
Maitland, and her brother, Florent Chapron, to represent a little of
France, a little of America, and a little of Africa; for their
grandfather was the famous Colonel Chapron mentioned in the Memorial,
who, after 1815, became a planter in Alabama. That old soldier, without
any prejudices, had, by a mulattress, a son whom he recognized and to
whom he left--I do not know how many dollars. 'Inde' Lydia and Florent.
Do not interrupt, it is almost finished. We shall have, to represent
England, a Catholic wedded to a Pole, Madame Gorka, the wife of Boleslas,
and, lastly, Paris, in the form of your servant. It is now I who will
essay to drag you away, for were you to join our party, you, the feudal,
it would be complete.... Will you come?"
"Has the blow satisfied you?" asked Montfanon. "And the unhappy man has
talent," he exclaimed, talking of Dorsenne as if the latter were not
present, "and he has written ten pages on Rhodes which are worthy of
Chateaubriand, and he has received from God the noblest gifts--poetry,
wit, the sense of history; and in what society does he delight! But,
come, once for all, explain to me the pleasure which a man of your genius
can find in frequenting that international Bohemia, more or less gilded,
in which there is not one being who has standing or a history. I no
longer allude to that scoundrel Hafner and his daughter, since you have
for her, novelist that you are, the eyes of Monsieur Guerillot. But that
Countess Steno, who must be at least forty, who has a grown daughter,
should she not remain quietly in her palace at Venice, respectably,
bravely, instead of holding here that species of salon for transients,
through which pass all the libertines of Europe, instead of having lover
after lover, a Pole after a Russian, an American after a Pole? And that
Maitland, why did he not obey the only good sentiment with which his
compatriots are inspired, the aversion to negro blood, an aversion which
would prevent them from doing what he has done--from marrying an
octoroon? If the young woman knows of it, it is terrible, and if she
does not it is still more terrible. And Madame Gorka, that honest
creature, for I believe she is, and truly pious as well, who has not
observed for the past two years that her husband was the Countess's
lover, and who does not see, moreover, that it is now Maitland's turn.
And that poor Alba Steno, that child of twenty, whom they drag through
these improper intrigues! Why does not Florent Chapron put an end to the
adultery of her sister's husband? I know him. He once came to see me
with regard to a monument he was raising in Saint-Louis in memory of his
cousin. He respects the dead, that pleased me. But he is a dupe in this
sinister comedy at which you are assisting, you, who know all, while your
heart does not revolt."
"Pardon, pardon!" interrupted Dorsenne, "it is not a question of that.
You wander on and you forget what you have just asked me.... What
pleasure do I find in the human mosaic which I have detailed to you?
I will tell you, and we will not talk of the morals, if you please, when
we are simply dealing with the intellect. I do not pride myself on being
a judge of human nature, sir leaguer; I like to watch and to study it,
and among all the scenes it can present I know of none more suggestive,
more peculiar, and more modern than this: You are in a salon, at a
dining-table, at a party like that to which I am going this morning.
You are with ten persons who all speak the same language, are dressed
by the same tailor, have read the same morning paper, think the same
thoughts and feel the same sentiments.... But these persons are like
those I have just enumerated to you, creatures from very different points
of the world and of history. You study them with all that you know of
their origin and their heredity, and little by little beneath the varnish
of cosmopolitanism you discover their race, irresistible, indestructible
race! In the mistress of the house, very elegant, very cultured, for
example, a Madame Steno, you discover the descendant of the Doges, the
patrician of the fifteenth century, with the form of a queen, strength in
her passion and frankness in her incomparable immorality; while in a
Florent Chapron or a Lydia you discover the primitive slave, the black
hypnotized by the white, the unfreed being produced by centuries of
servitude; while in a Madame Gorka you recognize beneath her smiling
amiability the fanaticism of truth of the Puritans; beneath the artistic
refinement of a Lincoln Maitland you find the squatter, invincibly coarse
and robust; in Boleslas Gorka all the nervous irritability of the Slav,
which has ruined Poland. These lineaments of race are hardly visible in
the civilized person, who speaks three or four languages fluently, who
has lived in Paris, Nice, Florence, here, that same fashionable,
monotonous life. But when passion strikes its blow, when the man is
stirred to his inmost depths, then occurs the conflict of
characteristics, more surprising when the people thus brought together
have come from afar: And that is why," he concluded with a laugh, "I have
spent six months in Rome without hardly having seen a Roman, busy,
observing the little clan which is so revolting to you. It is probably
the twentieth I have studied, and I shall no doubt study twenty more, for
not one resembles another. Are you indulgently inclined toward me, now
that you have got even with me in making me hold forth at this corner,
like the hero of a Russian novel? Well, now adieu."
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